Five
by ncarraway
Summary: He didn't always have five fears. Four tries to be brave without her. Future AU. Fourtris.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! I'm not usually a big fan of YA dystopians, but Divergent was an exception. I agree with Veronica Roth - Four is the bomb. So why not dedicate an entire fanfic to him being all angsty and stuff? ;)**

**Rated T for angst and some language**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Divergent, or any of Veronica Roth's characters.**

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He's drowning.

Shattered glass is on the ground and the waves - a slow, monolithic mass - collide inexorably with his shoulder. His eyes burn as he looks up at the black, starless sky.

He grunts against the current and suddenly the water feels like quick sand, sticking to his body and weighing him down against the sharp granules of sand.

He tries to push with his arms. They are gone, sinking to the vast base of the sea, broken off like the feeble arms of a plastic doll.

He's drowning, he knows it, and he can't do anything about it. His scream sounds like a child's laugh, mocking him as he struggles against the claws of nature. He will never swim away.

He's drowning, drowning under the force of the waves, under this dark sky that no god watches over. Drowning.

He hates feeling weak.

...

He came back two months ago and Zeke was waiting for him in the cafeteria. He smiled.

"Nice to see you," he said. He looked at Zeke and his dull skin and dull eyes, crinkled from fake smiling for so long.

"You're back," he said, trying to sound incredulous. Of course they knew he would come back - it was the only option.

Although the only sound either of them made was of peas sliding across their plates, the silence was too loud. There was too much to say, not enough time to say it, and no way to say it. But Four liked silences - heavy, light, jesting, serious - he heard too many screams in too short of a period of time.

The other Dauntless were as rowdy as usual, throwing plates and flicking food. But there was a tacit somberness among the older members. There were brief glances between them, evanescent traces of a past that gave them the illusion of a better future. They never stayed solemn, at least not long enough for the young ones to notice. And so the somberness went and stayed as quickly and transiently as it came, because Dauntless was supposed to feel liberating, not confining.

"How are you?" Zeke said. His fork clanged against his plate. His question sounded forced. He knew what the answer was.

"Fine," he replied. He put his spoon to his mouth and looked at the new initiates who were laughing loudly and telling dirty jokes.

_Want to hear a joke about my dick? Never mind, it's too long._

Whoops, woots, and a seemingly scolding (but obviously flirtatious) _Shut up, Nick!_

_Want to hear a joke about my vagina? Never mind, you won't get it._

Flecks of food fly through the bright dining room, and the more laughs, claps, and cheers come from the wooden table.

"No - honestly, Four. How are you doing?"

Four let his eyes wander nomadically to the boisterous table. They're all young - probably a year or two older than initiates. A boy and a girl sat on the edge of the bench, giggling and looking at each other. The polished metal of the table reflected the lovers' faces. Their cheeks were flushed for exertion, and their eyes never left each others'. Four turns to Zeke. His eyes stared back at Four's - black and tired, but not dull.

"I'm fine. Really." He's always been a bad liar, but his eyes suggested a change of subject.

He wanted the conversation to end. He hates small chat. Zeke probably wanted to help, but it was fruitless. Some questions do not have answers.

Zeke swallowed a piece of bread. "How's the ki –"

"She's fine." The bread tasted stale and the voices in the room seemed louder. Four took his butterknife and began tracing patterns onto the wooden table. First, aimless squiggles and lines, then two letters, one word.

_I love you, I'll be back._

_I'll be back, I love you._

_I love you._

Some questions do not have answers. Some promises are never kept.

The conversation was over. Zeke finished his dinner and said goodbye. Four nodded. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He did not open them until the voices faded and the cafeteria lights dimmed.

...

It is perched on the simulation chair when he opens his eyes again. He inhales heavily, glancing around panickingly at his sterile surroundings, and it caws. He is alone the simulation room, vials of serum neatly stacked in rows, but towering precariously.

It looks him in the eye and caws again – straight in the eye – unfazed by the presence of a larger animal. It is a plain bird – black feathers that conceal black eyes. There is elegance to its imperturbable conduct, with its chest feathers puffed and shining in the artificial light of the lamp. Its head cocks as if observing him in return. It almost seems amused. He reaches out, instinctively, to stroke it.

It tilts its head back and its eyes do not move - but it's smooth beak does.

"Be _brave_," it caws.

He lunges forward and reaches towards the bird's shiny feathers. "Be _brave_," it caws again in its scratchy voice.

It slips through the glass of the window, knocking down vials of simulation serum on the way. The vials fall as neatly as they were stacked, one after the other, like a row of yellow, bubbling dominoes.

Black shapes rise from the congealed liquid, forming themselves into millions of tiny feathers. The feathers swirl in indecipherable patterns, forming wings, tails, beaks -

More birds come through the window.

"Be_ brave _be_ brave _be_ brave _be_ brave _be_ brave,"_ they shriek, crashing against the walls and dissolving into the sizzling serum. A huge rumble comes from one of the walls, and thousands of birds fly out as the wall itself crumbles into more birds. Dust rises, stinging Four's eyes.

Four yells and ducks as he is hit by a black, homogeneous conglomeration of birds, their claws scratching his face.

Birds fight their way out of the spilled liquid.

"Be _brave_," one says as he struggles to reach for it.

He yells and dives into a moving pile of the dark beasts, trying to – at least – grab a few.

They slither out of his fingers like crafty serpents.

"Be _brave_," they mock.

He stands in the middle of the room flailing his arms pathetically, hoping to knock one down from the air. He needs to catch one. He does not know why, but he feels trapped – like a little boy too short to reach the cookie jar. Satisfaction is only an inch away.

The birds avoid him.

The room turns upside down. A deep buzzing noise resonates within the walls. He can see only in black and white.

"Be _brave_!"

The shrieks are everywhere, filling his head and ears as he struggles to stay upright. He shuts his eyes and screams to keep out the shrill ringing. Birds knock into him, clawing his face and arms while tearing his clothing.

He falls to his knees.

_A deep buzzing noise – flashes of red -_

The room grows quiet. He opens his eyes.

The birds are all dead, slumped against the walls and floor, their blood matting their feathers. It is the calm after the storm.

_Silence_.

He hears a small shuffle and turns to his right.

A raven stands in a puddle of blood.

Slowly, this time, he reaches out to stroke it. The bird seems relaxed. He is relaxed. He starts crying. He does not know why.

His fingers pause inches away from the bird's feathers. He can feel the raven's even breaths. It has bright eyes.

He moves his hand slowly. The bird jumps back, but when it opens its mouth, an ugly cackle does not come out.

"Be brave," it says in a soft voice. The voice of a young girl.

It dissolves into hundreds of small silver fish that dart away in the puddle of blood, slivers of light in a dark tunnel.

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**Please favorite, review, critique, and all that jazz. Constructive criticism is appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! I finally figured out how to do this Author's Note thing haha. Thanks for following and favoriting (I'm looking at you, those two people who did ;) ). It really means a lot to me! **

**This next chapter is a little dramatic, so brace yourselves - Angsty Four is coming.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Divergent, or any of Veronica Roth's characters.**

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This time there are twelve of them, excluding the ones who decided to embrace the hundred-foot drop below the train. Twelve initiates, all transfers. He wants to laugh – all of them believe that Dauntless is the road to freedom. He knows better. It is a road to hell. Hell, only with better cake.

The skinny redhead from Candor is the first jumper. His frail arms swing as he dives from the block of concrete, falling into the stomach of the knotted beast who refuses to break, even after a century of carrying weight.

Another boy, dark-skinned and reserved, from Erudite. He is big – big enough to almost crash through the net. He gives Four a slightly subservient nod as he steps off, knowledgeable enough to know that acceding to authority is a virtue in Dauntless. Four learned that the hard way.

The net shakes as the weight of a slender girl with ample hips crashes from the sky like a fallen angel. She's conventionally pretty - crimson cheeks and golden curls. If it were up to Four to judge, he would have thought that she belonged in Amity, knitting sweaters and picking apples (or whatever they do there), instead of choosing to shoot pistols, chase trains, and climb through psychologically traumatic and unmitigated fear landscapes.

Two more girls plummet from the sky, their falls punctuated by loud grunts. One lands immediately after the other, almost crushing her before she quickly, albeit clumsily, rolled off of the net. Four gives the first girl a hand and she grasps it desperately, saving her forehead from making direct contact with the floor. She pants and clutches at her stomach, her wide-set eyes bulging. From her heavy perspiration and scrawny physique, Four assumes that she is not the athletic type.

"Shit," she wheezes, "what have I – "

Her eyes find their way up to Four's. They are two millimeters from popping out of their sockets.

"Rough day?" Four inquires as she takes in his form, her mouth hanging open and her eyes as wide as ripe cantaloupes.

Her mouth creases into a light-headed smile and she shakes her head. "Not anymore," she breathes.

Her companion – the one who nearly crushed her – frees herself from the entanglement of the net. She stops breathing once she sees him.

Four stops breathing, too. The girl does not look unusual, with conventional features and a long nose. But she is petite and blonde. A petite blonde, though not the first to jump.

Four tries not to look at her.

* * *

"And don't even bother telling me your names," he continues, "although names are all that matter here." He is standing in front of a rusty window, broad shoulders obscuring the vague sunlight struggling to brighten the room. "I don't do the rankings - the computer does."

With impeccable timing, the computer pings and names, carved in silver with the lethal precision characteristic of their faction of origin, slide themselves across the glass screen. The names seem to have a mind of their own, blinking and swimming in their transparent sea of data, arranging and rearranging themselves with defiant autonomy.

Four takes a moment to register their awe, and the flicker of fascination in the dark boy's eyes makes Four wonder if he chose the wrong faction.

"Gift from Erudite," he adds.

The ranking board stands at a colossal height of forty-feet, with a length almost thrice the width. The smooth hum of the panels cast an almost ominous presence in the room, drawing the attention away from the long dining tables and mesmerizing all with its massiveness and rigidity.

But there is something that catches everyone's eye, something big - even bigger than the board itself. Something abnormal enough to toss reality - or what we know of it - out of the window, and no one dares to say anything about it.

Silence wafts slowly into the room, tinting everything an uncertain shade of gray.

Finally, someone speaks. "You're number two," says a Dauntless-born. Her voice holds a shred of incredulity.

On the screen, underneath the highlighted first column, Four's name gleams abashedly.

Four raises an eyebrow, but he knows where this is going. He rolls his head on his neck. "Yes?" I dare you to go on, he thinks. _I dare you._

"I thought you were number one," she continues.

Four's eyes are like deadly, precise eagles, watching their prey sinisterly.

The brazen voice of a Dauntless boy pierces Four's screen of intimidation. "Don't you have four fears or something? That's the record, and you're known for making it."

The eagles prepare for flight. "No," he says, finally. Four conveys a message through his sharp, gray eyes: _This is when the conversation ends._

He overestimates the boy's perceptiveness. "Last time I checked, the record for the least number of fears is four -"

"It still is. I was answering her question. No, I am not number one, as evidenced by the huge '2' next to my name," he stops to look at the two novices, "But apparently, some of you feel the need to confirm that." A few giggles rise from the throng of initiates.

The boy's face turns crimson. A Dauntless's main fallacy? His pride. "That's not what I meant to say," he says indignantly.

_I dare you._

Four smirks, eyes crinkling. "No, no - of course that's not what you meant to say."

He saunters calmly to the boy and the girl - hands behind his back, his shoulders flexed. The only sound in the room is the clicking of his boots on the ground, and the air is so still that he can see the heat waves radiating from all of the bodies.

He pauses over the boy. Tall versus small. Goliath versus David. Four smiles, because he knows all too well that this time, this time there is a twist in the fable: _God's not here to save you, David. He never was._

"No, no, _no._ I know that's not what you meant to say," he says, his voice flat. His eyebrow quirks in that way it always is when he knows he is going to win. "What you meant to say is that these rankings count. A lot. What you meant to say is that it matters if one person, a single person, is ranked higher than you."

When the boy fidgets, he continues, just as calmly as before. "And boy, you clever little bastard, you are right. Now I want all of you, _all of you_, to listen carefully, okay? Because what I'm going to say is important - every single point counts. Every single fight counts. Every single simulation - everything, _everything_ counts. You know why? Because, and don't even try to object here, _they_ see everything. Every minute detail. And if one person screws up, even slightly, they drop down a ranking on that board. And you see that red line that cuts off a quarter of the names? Let me tell you - that line represents hell." He drags the word out.

He leans forwards, so that he's looking straight at the kid. "You get under that red bar and you're fucked. They throw you out, out to the wolves, and you become factionless. And the wolves, and I've seen them, their yellow hunting eyes and all. They are merciless. They'll tear you to bits. They'll take everything from you and you will be one of those nameless corpses rotting on the street. They won't even send you back to your old faction, 'cause no one wants a screw-up. No one will know what happens to you. Those wolves are hungry, always hungry. So we have to be like them - show no mercy to your opponent. Even if they're hungry. Even if they're starving, or dying, or both. Or else, or else, you will be hungry too, and you will never, ever know what mercy is."

Goliath prevails again. There are no underdogs in Dauntless.

"They're all fake fights and simulations," murmurs the boy, "just games. No one gets hurt, anyway."

Four's eyes are as dull as his voice.

"No. They are never just games. But play well and you won't get hurt."

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**Shout out to my beta foxtailred for editing. Go read her stuff - it's amazing. (Really - Go. Now.) Please review, follow, and/or favorite! **

**- ncarraway**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for favoriting y'all!**

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Although he's been through his fear landscape one too many times, it never gets easier.

He's back, back in the gray, windowless room. It's bare, with a monochromatic ceiling that matches the monochromatic tiles on the floor. He can't see or remember how he came in because there doesn't seem to be a visible entrance, and his logic is distorted. There is one exit. He knows exactly where it leads.

He pauses in front of the door to swipe a gun from a table that wasn't there before. His hands stay steady, but an inexplicable feeling rushes up and tries to fight its way out of his body to regain control of his brain. It doesn't take much effort to repress it. He drags forward, broken joints and blank eyes. He feels the familiar metal outline of the gun in his hand.

The tiles on the floor shift towards the ceiling, where they file out through a small crack like obedient soldiers. Soon, the room is completely white. The logical part of Four thinks it's ironic, but this side of Four shuffles forwards, not any time to think with only one goal in mind.

His footsteps become silent. The gun clicks.

Somewhere inside, he know's all too well that this is how they'll play him. They'll take away both his logic and turn him into lethal monster. And somewhere else inside of him, he also knows that they already have. This is the proof.

He knows that eventually this scene will play out again - _homo homonus lupis. _Only with different hosts, different bodies that will do the job quickly and efficiently. He doesn't want to be there to witness it. He really doesn't. He cares but he doesn't care.

The proof that they have made him into a killing machine, stripped of feeling is right here, in this room. He's a drone, subserviently following the ruthless orders of the programmers in Erudite, with no control over his actions.

But this time - he's not under the simulation. They don't control him. He does.

He always promises himself that he won't look her in the eye when he does it, but this time he forgets. An oblivious, careless mistake. But he doesn't regret it.

He'd love to say that it's like looking into a reflection, all green eyes and thick hair, but it's not. He hates and loves that she looks more like her mother because he doesn't like to remember something that's not there anymore.

She's wearing the same outfit as usual, that same damned yellow dress that always came back home after school with mysterious mud stains, her hair in an unruly ponytail.

She smiles after one word: _Daddy._

He shoots without saying a thing.

It's over in an instant. He turns around, his back facing the scene, and he places the gun back on the table.

But although his shoulders don't shake and his hands don't quiver, he's exploding on the inside.

It never gets easier.

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**This is what happens when I try to write late at night. Please review, favorite, and follow! - ncarraway**


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